Tasia
by Shauni Dee
Summary: Destiel AU. Brief ficlet. Minimal dialogue.


If you asked Dean how and when he had first met his boyfriend, he would lie. It was practiced, rehearsed, the way he would speak about it; explain that Castiel had been eighteen when they met in his father's antique store.

But it wasn't true. In honesty, Castiel had been sixteen when they first met. Dean was twenty-three at the time. Dean had all but knocked Castiel over when he had stumbled out of a gay bar in Kansas State in the early hours of the morning. Castiel had been opening up the family store, and had pushed his keys into his pocket, fumbled around for his glasses, which had fallen off when Dean bumped into him.

Dean managed to swoop down, and pick them up, before Castiel had chance. Smiling to himself, probably as a result of the alcohol, he'd leaned forward and placed them back on Castiel's nose. They hung uneven, one arm resting in front of Castiel's left ear, and he straightened them up. Then Dean had apologised, and set off home again as Castiel watched him.

They met again, two months after Castiel's seventeenth birthday. Dean was looking for a gift for Sam, and on his trip, had turned into the antique store without a thought. The sound of the bell above the door had Castiel ducking out from behind a stack of books piled on the counter corner.

Castiel recognised Dean straight away. He looked far more sober, this time, and Castiel almost forgot his usual greeting, before spluttering it out and watching as Dean's face seemed to alter, a recognition settling on his features.

"You got new glasses," was the first thing he had said to Castiel. The other, in response, had toyed with them awkwardly, nodded his head, and dropped his hands back down, pulling the cuffs of his sweater further over his hands.

Things had gone from there. Dean had found the perfect gift for Sam, with Castiel's help, and when it was time for Castiel's break, Dean was still hanging around. They had gone for coffee just down the road, and had talked. That was when Dean had spoken up, told him he was twenty-four, now, and Castiel's face had fallen, because no matter what, nothing could happen with an age difference like that.

The next time they saw one another, Dean was close to twenty-five. It was winter, Castiel's father had closed the shop for the time being as a result of the snow fall. He was struggling to get home after a supply run, and had locked eyes with Dean as he turned a corner. His hands were full of carrier bags, and Dean had instinctively taken two from him, invited him home.

Castiel didn't seem able to say no.

Dean's house was much closer than his, and they arrived just ten minutes later, on foot. Dean had made hot chocolate, lit up a cigarette and offered one to Castiel, who simply shook his head and pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

When he finished his cigarette, he took up the seat beside Castiel. They talked, again, and laughed, and at some point, Dean had taken the mug from Castiel's hand, placed it on the coffee table. And they had kissed. It had been sweet, at first, and then Castiel's wrists were pressed above his head, and Dean was grinding into him, hips against hips, and Castiel wasn't resisting.

Then lips weren't on lips anymore. They found jaw, and neck, and torso, and thighs, as both of them lost clothing and inhibitions alike. The foreplay was like nothing Castiel had experienced, slick hot spit on his length and dripping down between his cheeks, his hands tugging at the ends of Dean's hair as Dean opened him up, pulled him apart. Castiel realized, eventually, the wrapper on the table, teeth-torn, and Dean was speaking, asking him something, and Castiel was nodding somewhat desperately.

And they'd fallen together afterwards, exhausted. Castiel had cleared his throat, and Dean had reached over him, down to the floor, picking up Castiel's glasses and pushing them back onto his nose, straight this time, arms hooked behind his ears.

Dean had begged Castiel not to tell, and Castiel had agreed, knowing it could mean Dean going to jail. That was the last thing he wanted.

He stayed there that night. Dean had offered to take the sofa, and Castiel got his bed. It had smelled perfectly of Dean, of motor oil and musk, and Castiel had basked in it, touched himself, lazy through his boxers after that afternoon. Dean had interrupted, unknowingly. Had muttered something about how he couldn't sleep on the sofa after all, and had crawled beneath the covers, slinging an arm over Castiel's chest as he allowed his half-lidded eyes to close fully. Castiel bit down on his lower lip, counted to ten, and settled into the hold, falling asleep.


End file.
